


Feeding My Appetite

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean, Bisexuality, Car Salesman Dean, Coming Out, Dean Smith-ish, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Dean's a Poet As He Comes to Know It, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mechanic Castiel, Mechanic Dean, Newly Out, Singer's Auto Shop, Writer Castiel, baby's first crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-06 07:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14636856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Between the contrasting features, like his blue eyes to Dean’s green, his tanned and toned form to Dean’s freckled and lean, his messy hair and straggler beard to Dean’s close-shaven… well, everything, he’s like Dean’s evil twin. That is, if they had… well, anything in common beyond the soulful looks they’re trading.Just when Dean thinks he can’t get any more attractive, some vicariously dangerous omniscient figure pencils in Cas’s deep, raspy voice to accompany a crooked smile: “Gladly.”





	1. Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo. I've been gone for a while, I know, but I'm back and finally getting over my writer's block. I'll try to get this done asap since I'm having surgery tomorrow, but I promise that it will be done. Nothing deters me from my one mission in this world: To canonize Dean and Cas in every universe I can.
> 
> The song that'll be used throughout this work is "Hunger" by Florence and the Machine.

Dean sits up on his bed with a groan.

Yet another good night’s sleep induced by the soporific, high-quality sounds of nature and his memory foam. He turns off his iPhone and glances at the foot of his bed. Just as he figures: It’s six am, and his work clothes, a freshly pressed, single breasted grey tonic suit, are splayed out for his convenience. The sun from the balcony bathes him in morning warmth, causing him to wriggle in his linen sheets before swinging his legs over the mattress and padding to his bathroom.

His shower’s one of those walk-ins, allowing Dean to step effortlessly over the tan ceramic wedge and into the warm water from overhead showerhead. When the stream hits him, he slips into autopilot: grabbing his soap from the nearby dispenser and lathering from shoulder to calf before stepping back under the water. He watches, transfixed as the froth slithers down his runner’s physique the way the salty, ocean-style backwash does washing up on shore.

God, he misses California. Palo Alto in particular.

He still hasn’t told Sam.

_He still hasn’t told Sam._

Dean shakes the water from his newly dampened caramel hair and slams the faucet into the wall.

He goes about his normal Monday morning after the shower: Shaving the budding ginger-brown hairs around his parched mouth, washing his face, fixing his hair, slipping into the suit on his bed, and moving into kitchen.

Coffee’s become second-nature to him alongside his famously plain scrambled eggs and toast. He makes it not so much out of necessity anymore, but routine. As much as he’s grown to hate it, there’s a certain comfort in predictability. He regrets firing Toni over an espresso, but he’d rather stick to the way he makes it than risk wasting perfectly good electricity over strange-tasting coffee. He can’t tell you what _other way_ there is to make an instant espresso aside from the ole shuck and grind. Dean just knows when that liquid penny pick-me-up sails over his lips and wedges little bitter seeds into the pores of his tongue, there’s a difference.

After one last check around the spacious studio apartment to make sure everything’s locked, he grabs his keys off the hanger and heads for the door.

 

 

Arthur manages to catch Dean in-between two successful sales to comment, “You’ve got to control yourself.”

Dean quirks a brow in his direction, but not without a small smile. “You’re telling me, Count Dooku.”

“Oh how I’ll miss your British quips.”

“And how I’ll miss your deadpan response to my effortlessly offensive British quips.”

“All I’m saying is save some sales for us before you leave.”

“Hey now, you’ve just gotta step up your game,” Dean ripostes with a jab to Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur’s white, sugar cookie face nearly flakes from a similar smile threatening his thin, equally pale lips. “You’re a bloody asshole. And I don’t mean bloody in substitution for a non-descript vulgar word, I mean a literal _bloody asshole.”_

Dean shrugs. “It’s a gift.”

At that moment, Dean’s beckoned by Mitch, another car salesman, regarding the details of his last sale.

Arthur stops him with an outstretched, open-palm hand. Dean looks down and blinks.

“Hasn’t your father taught you how to shake another man’s hand?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but slides his hand into Arthur’s.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Arthur continues, “rather than lying and saying it’s been a pleasure working with you, I’ll gift you an honest statement—one can even argue comes straight from my heart: It hasn’t been _nearly as awful as I thought it would_ _have been_ working with you.”

It’s a pretty good retort, but Dean can’t find it in him to put on a scowl.

It’s a big change, moving from a job with a 401k to a 4:01 by appointment only. Ever since coming out last month, he feels different. Like being slapped awake from someone else’s dream. It’s forced him to reevaluate his life, and realize just how much he despises it. Everything about it. From his bed to his bathroom, to the way he bathes and shaves and drinks coffee. The only thing he likes is his ’67 Chevy. His work on it after his father’s passing inspired thoughts of working the other side of cars, but the motivation didn’t truly come until after stepping out of the closet.

It’s a big change, but it’s one he’s willing to sacrifice as his first step to living the life he wants.

 

Next stop: Singer’s Auto Shop.

 

 

Bobby Singer isn’t an impressive-looking man, but he definitely has more wits than whiskers on his face.

“Son.” He flips through the two pages of Dean’s resume like the wings of origami swan, as if expecting it to fly. “Where’s your experience?”

Dean tilts his head before realizing. “Oh, you mean with _fixing_ cars. Well, when I was ten, I helped reassemble my uncle’s ’65 Thunderbird. But I know that’s not on my resume because it was unpaid...”

“No—although that’s pretty impressive—I’m not talkin’ about your work experience,” Mr. Singer states, “I’m talkin’ your life experience. ‘Cuz all I’m seein’ in front of me’s a guy in a fancy suit. And I don’t trust men in fancy suits.”

“Well… um…” Dean clears his throat. Dean’s shy towards a couple things, but oversharing has never been one. “Do you want me to start with my belligerent, alcoholic father? Or my mother who abandoned me when I was stable enough to walk so I could take care of my brother while she fucked off to Manitoba for a guy whose name sounds like an off-brand laptop?”

Mr. Singer grins. “You’re hired. Cas, get Dean into a jumpsuit and show him around.”

Dean turns to see who Mr. Singer is summoning—which isn’t accurate phrasing when he sees the guy.

Cas is wiping his visibly strong and tanned hands on a blue handkerchief. Dean briefly wonders if that was coordinated to match his eyes before his own return to Cas’s face.

Between the contrasting features, like his blue eyes to Dean’s green, his tanned and toned form to Dean’s freckled and lean, his messy hair and straggler beard to Dean’s close-shaven… well, _everything_ , he’s like Dean’s evil twin. That is, if they had… well, _anything_ in common beyond the soulful looks they’re trading.

Just when Dean thinks he can’t get any more attractive, some vicariously dangerous omniscient figure pencils in Cas’s deep, raspy voice to accompany a crooked smile: “Gladly.”

 

Dean’s not sure what he’s gotten himself into, but he has a feeling he’ll find out quicker than he wants to.


	2. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s face splits into a grin before Cas’s lips sober him up again. "You're right. I have to stop running and start grounding myself. And I think I know where to start."
> 
> Dean pivots so he’s facing Cas without turning his head. Then, he uses his right hand to reach up and cup Cas’s face. Cas looks up at him, blinking before a curious smile crosses his face, as if he’s caught in the plot twist of a novel, and is at a stand-still: left hanging for the next transcription.

 

_We all have a hunger_

_We all have a hunger_

_We all have a hunger_

_We all have a hunger_

 

“So this is the place.”

Cas isn’t joking when he gestures straight ahead of him. The shop is a small, quaint space impervious to dirt, grime, or loose tools. It probably can’t fit more than a few cars at a time, but judging by the car to the far right, its maximum capacity is actually two. With its rusty underbelly and fading vertical paintjob, it looks better suited for a junkyard. It’s hard to imagine why someone would keep it laying around, but with his history with his own car, Dean can sympathize.

“Is that a ’71 Chevelle? 365 horsepower and four-hundred sixty-five—wait…” Dean steps closer to see the faint imprint of two white stripes running across the top of the car. “Was this one of the racing models??”

“Are you a fan of NASCAR?”

Dean blushes, immediately shying away. “Uh… no. Well, I mean, I _used_ to be.” The tug at the corner of his unsmiling lips feels more like the last string on his puppeteer’s toy. For years, he’s let his ID do the talking, which has led to many adult sleepovers. But now that he’s _officially_ bisexual, it all feels too forced. He wants to celebrate his sexuality, but on his own terms. “I guess I’ve just been riding in the fast-lane a little too long."

When he looks up again, to his relief, Dean finds Cas nodding. “Fair enough. But no, this is Bobby’s car. It has at least a hundred thousand miles on it, but he’s still hanging onto it.”

Dean whistles low, “Wow. Must be something special.”

“Yeah,” Cas scoffs. “He won’t tell me what put all that mileage on it, but my money’s on a drug cartel.”

“Nah, ‘s too far-fetched,” Dean says, “he was definitely a Russian spy.”

“He could’ve fooled me with that Southern accent.”

“Then he’s a good spy.”

Cas tilts his head back and taps his nose before giggling.

His laugh takes a mallet to Dean’s xylophone ribs, making him vibrate with giddiness.

“So,” Dean announces, clapping his hands, “where do I start?”

 

 

“Dean, can you hand me a wrench?”

“I don’t know, that might—”

“Oh please. Please don’t say—”

“—throw a _wrench_ in your plans.”

Cas sighs something guttural as Dean just grins with his arm outstretched.

It’s only been a few weeks, but Dean’s already burrowed himself into the grounded little shop. Bobby reminds him of a higher-functioning version of his late father, and Cas… well, Cas doesn’t remind him of anyone he’s ever met.

For example, when Dean suggests getting a drink to get to know each other better, Cas claims he doesn’t drink unless the situation demands it out of courtesy or respect, like at weddings during toasts. The same happens when Dean offers him a cigarette on break. He says he’s been high multiple times, but only in an attempt to gain a spiritual connection. And as far as sex goes, he identifies as pansexual, but doesn’t consider himself a sexual person because sex is “a nice additive to an intimate experience”; rather seeing sexual advances as something with a purpose beyond simple pleasure.

Dean, who doesn’t know where he’d be without sex, drugs, and rock and roll, finds it all fascinating. He can definitely learn something from Cas, considering the guy’s written three unpublished novels, and not touched a single stimulant in the process. It’s incredible seeing how something as simple as a hobby can blossom into something that supersedes a joy ride. It makes Dean realize just how overrated everything actually is.

“Although, you may actually wanna ditch the wrench, because that gasket just needs sealer,” Dean remarks, glancing over at the open hood Cas is underneath. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing more of that tanned, fine-tuned valley of skin.

Dean tries not to gawk before remembering that he can. But even then, when Cas glances over, Dean turns away, as not to make him uncomfortable. He’s already accidentally seen a lower hip tattoo in a language he doesn’t know. It’s something dead, unlike the natural glow Cas has with the sun hitting him in such a way…

“How do you figure?” he asks, squinting at Dean.

Dean shrugs off those thoughts to step closer so they’re occupying the same space. “Well, it’s still a perfectly good gasket. Sure, it’s a little stained, but it’s still salvageable. Believe me; I’m used to driving old cars. And this guy’ll be out of one for weeks before we can find a new head.”

“It may save him an extra trip down here, though,” Cas defends, “if he just gets the whole part replaced, it’ll be more expensive, but it’ll be worth it in the long run. My Continental Mark V had the same issue. The sealant only goes so far for a—”

“Wait,” Dean interrupts, stepping back to look at Cas directly, “did you just admit to owning a Mark V?”

“It’s a classic!”

“It’s a _Pimpmobile!”_ Dean laughs. “What’re you, cruising Jersey Shore in that thing?”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve had some steamy moments in my car.”

“Oh I bet, because the AC is barely functional.”

Cas drops his head to look at Dean through half-lidded eyes.

“Okay, alright—humor me,” Dean rejoins, leaning against the hood for support. But since the car’s dated in the 80’s, the stand collapses, causing Dean to stumble with it. He regains his balance and props up the hood again with a dumbfounded scoff before admitting, “I probably deserved that.”

And in that moment, Dean realizes just how bad karma fucks him over, because Cas is grinning wide, stretching the unkempt hairs around his mouth and revealing an expanse of gleaming gums. “April Kelly,” he states. “She was actually my first… and definitely won’t be my last.”

“That bad, huh?”

“No, that _good,”_ Cas emphasizes, scoffing. “She was great. I was a nervous wreck afterwards. She had to drive _me_ home.”

Dean’s eyes shoot wide open before he shakes his head. “ _Anyway,_ I would try the sealant first…”

Turns out the sealant works. It helps spot the leak, which Dean can fix with a few twists that probably gives Cas a great view of his ass, so he selfishly stalls.

“See,” Dean announces once he’s finished, not wasting his next opportunity to toss a wink at Cas, “all you needed was a little lube on your head.”

Dean takes the discoloration on Cas’s face the rest of the day as a job well done.

 

 

“109… 18…6. Got it?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Dean’s creeper screeches as he rolls out from underneath the ’90 Galant. Cas is still scribbling something down, prompting Dean to ask, “What’s it like to be a writer?”

“Exhausting,” Cas laughs humorlessly. “Imagine being tickled and stabbed at the same time.”

Dean throws his head back. “Wow. Sounds like my first date. I mean what’s the process like?” he asks. “How do you come up with characters and a plotline and a backstory?”

Cas shrugs. “I don’t know. It all just sort of hits me.” He smiles. “Like a song I’ve heard for years stuck in my head. It’s all laid out in front of me; I just have to fill in some missing lyrics to get it unstuck.”

Dean hums in appreciation. “Reminds me of my guitar days in high school.”

Cas’s lips spread like a Sharpie hesitating on a thought, even reaching as far as Dean’s pink-colored pad. “You played guitar?”

“A little, yeah.” Dean scratches his neck. “For a hot moment, I had a band. My brother can’t sing worth of shit, so he took up the drums. Our half-brother Adam played bass. We called ourselves The Gospel of Winchester… I dunno, it’s dumb.”

“Why does that sound like a Christian Rock band?”

“Oh far from it. We did have a huge God complex, though.”

That somehow gets a chuckle from Cas. Dean drops his hand and throws the conversation back at him. “So what kind of stuff do you write?” He pauses to add with an elevated brow: “Anything naughty?”

“Maybe back in my fan fiction days, but now, unfortunately just young adult fiction stories with ‘deeper meanings’ and ‘good messages’.” Cas actually air quotes those four words.

Dean’s smile quickly dissipates. He clears his throat of the apprehension sitting thick before reminding himself he’s allowed to indulge in flirting. “Do you take inspiration from real people in your life?”

Cas narrows his eyes with a smile. “If you’re asking if I’m currently drawing inspiration from your tragically ironic band in high school, then I’m going to have to answer yes.”

“No, no… even though you’re free to use that embarrassing low in my life for a story… I meant, um…” Dean laughs, feeling that same knot tie up in his throat. Everything’s always easier when it’s wrapped up in a joke. Instead, Dean feels _himself_ wrapped back up in a thick, hooded parka in his closet—the same closet he fought tooth and nail to get out of. “If I were a character in your next series, say… what would I look like?”

“Well, I’d have to map out a character dossier first.”

"Okay, if you were to write a character dossier on me, how would you describe him?"

The first words out of Cas’s mouth already make him nervous: “Hmm, I dunno… easygoing… but wildly entertaining. Funny, but in a way only he'll ever fully appreciate.” Cas ducks his head before throwing out the next adjective: “Handsome..."

" _Just_ handsome?" Dean jokes, a little more confident by Cas thinking him handsome. Especially from someone worthy of the same descriptor. ”C'mon, Cas, you owe it to your devoted readers to paint a vivid picture."

Cas looks up then and, with those bright, shining blue eyes, puts Dean under a microscope. “Gorgeous.” Cas delivers that one word so deadpan, it makes Dean, the tiny creature he is, wriggle a bit under his intense gaze. “His facial galaxy is littered with small, burning clusters of stars known as freckles. He has a pair of earthly eyes bursting with life, and a wormhole for a mouth, because you’re always drawn into his dialect and friendly conversation. He’s extraordinary, but modest, reserving his beauty for those willing to strap on a suit and helmet and brace for lifelong exploration.”

And just like that, the knot in his throat relaxes, and Dean’s able to breathe—a little too well, judging by the shaky exhale that slips out of him.

Cas steps close enough so his hand can rest on Dean’s shoulder. Dean licks his lips, eyes traveling to Cas’s own before Cas spins him around.

“Hi, sorry if I imposed on something,” the man before him states. He even takes off his ratty old cap and places it over his lengthy chest. “My name’s Garth. I don’t suppose you guys have any jumper cables you can spare?”

“Uh… yeah, follow me,” Dean replies, navigating around Cas to a small container with supplies.

They carry on with their workday after that, with Cas’s narrative sticking in Dean’s head like a favorite song.

 

 

Dean throws his hands up in victory. “Ah-ha!” he exclaims, shutting the hood of the ’05 Prius and grinning at Cas, who’s pointing behind Dean.

Dean turns around and marvels at the dusk backdrop he almost missing. The sky’s streaked with pink, purple, and blue, all running together like Crayola watercolor on printer paper.

It reminds him of his own true colors. Even visiting his father’s headstone and telling him that way was hard. Never hearing his father’s response because of his fear of telling him when he was alive has been the hardest.

The closest measure he has is his extended, non-blood family, the only other family he has left: his Aunt Ellen and Cousins Jo and Ash.

He’s told Jess too, but begged her not to tell Sam just yet.

That was three months ago.

So looking at the sky is both a breath of relief and a slap in the face. But it is beautiful nonetheless.

“The Dippers are supposed to be out tonight,” Cas says, interrupting his thoughts. “What do you say we call it quits for the day and do a little gazing?”

 

"Do you ever think about her?"

Dean tears his gaze from the stars to look over at Cas on the other side of his hood before realizing there’s no difference. "Who?"

"Your mom,” Cas explicates.

Dean turns back to the sky as one of the stars in the Big Dipper winks at him. “Sometimes.” He shrugs. “I don’t know… I have fragments of memories, so it’s kinda hard to picture her. I try to picture her as a mother for my own sanity, rather than a woman who left her kids high and dry.”

Out of his peripheral, Dean can see Cas nod before turning back to the sky too. “I never knew my mom, but I think about her too. A lot. What she looked like, smelt like… I must’ve recreated her image a dozen times in my writing. I like to think of it as a cost-effective therapy.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’m pretty sure I drove my dad to seeking _bottle_ therapy. He used to go off on me before he went on a bender. I think it’s because I look a lot like her. And he hated Sam when he left for Stanford. I think that was a big trigger too.”

"You haven't told him, have you?"

Dean turns back to Cas with a bashful smile. "Am I that obvious?"

"Like a goth standing next to a yellow taxi in the Arizona summer," Cas laughs. "Except, you don't try to hide it like most guys. So why the hold out on him?"

"I don't know... I guess I'm  just scared." Dean shakes his head and kicks a rock beneath the sole of his boot. "He's the only blood family I have left, and if he's gone..."

"When I came out to my own brother, you know what he said?” Cas adds a scoff to his rhetoric: “He looked me dead in the eye and asked, 'Well, what're you waiting for?' And you know what I realized? I was waiting for his approval. I was waiting for him to tell me it was okay to like a gender other than female." Dean doesn’t realize his head’s sinking until Cas is craning his to look up at him. "You can't live your life constantly seeking validation from other people, Dean. Tell your brother because you value and want him in your life. Not because you need his signature on a permission slip."

"Wow,” Dean says, lifting his head, “you just saved me six bucks on the Hallmark card I was gonna buy."

"Do coming out cards exist? What would they even say?"

"Probably something to the effect of 'Hi' in big, bold letters on the front, and 'Bi' as you open it."

"Well, fuck our day jobs."

Dean’s face splits into a grin before Cas’s lips sober him up again. "You're right. I have to stop running and start grounding myself. And I think I know where to start."

Dean pivots so he’s facing Cas without turning his head. Then, he uses his right hand to reach up and cup Cas’s face. Cas looks up at him, blinking before a curious smile crosses his face, as if he’s caught in the plot twist of a novel, and is at a stand-still: left hanging for the next transcription.

Dean’s hand slips down to Cas’s chest. Then, he slams the keyboard—and Cas, against the hood of his car. Everything hits Dean all at once—like a song he’s heard for years stuck in his head. It’s all laid out in front of him; he just has to fill in those missing lyrics to get it unstuck.

So he kisses him.

Dean always imagined what kissing another man would feel like: coarser, harder, heavier. And he can happily say his expectations haven’t been lived up to. Because the way Cas is kissing him is too delicate for any of those adjectives. Cas kisses Dean’s lips like he’s cradling two antique china dishes: Everything about it is slow and considered and handled with care. It’s a stark contrast from Dean’s manhandling a second ago, but still takes Dean’s breath away. He has to move his hand from Cas’s chest to his back and bury the other in Cas’s greasy hair to keep steady.

By the time they pull back, Cas’s back is half on the hood of the Impala, one leg wrapped loosely around Dean’s waist, and his head in Dean’s shoulder. Dean has to pull away a little to see the extent of the moonlight draped over Cas’s body, already missing his warm breath against his neck, and let’s just say if anyone’s worthy of a narrative right now, it’s Cas.

And when Cas intertwines their fingers, Dean feels like he has the whole universe in the palm of his hand.

 

 _Tell me what you need, oh, you look so free_  
The way you use your body, baby, come on and work it for me  
Don't let it get you down, you're the best thing I've seen  
We never found the answer but we knew one thing 

_  
We all have a hunger_


	3. Sated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas smiles and pushes a long strand of wet caramel hair from Dean’s forehead. They look at each other for a moment Cas cuts short with a firm kiss. “I’m so, so proud of you,” he whispers, causing Dean’s lips to mimic his.

Dean sits up on his bed with a small, satisfactory hum.

Yet another good night’s sleep induced by the soporific, high-quality sounds of nature and his memory foam. He reaches to turn off his iPhone before realizing it’s already off. Huh—he must have forgotten to turn on the music last night. He then turns to look at the clock. Just as he figures: It’s seven am, and he forgot to put out his jumpsuit for work. But he’s not bothered; he still has time to get ready. So when the sun from the balcony bathes him in morning warmth, he stretches in his linen sheets, basking in the new day, before swinging his legs over the mattress and padding to his bathroom.

When the stream from the shower hits him, he slips into autopilot: grabbing his soap from the nearby dispenser and lathering from shoulder to calf before stepping back under the water. He feels a second body press against his back and grins as he turns around to be enveloped in the man’s warmth.

“Are you ready?” Cas asks, cupping his face.

Dean replies with a confident nod.

Cas smiles and pushes a long strand of wet caramel hair from Dean’s forehead. They look at each other for a moment Cas cuts short with a firm kiss. “I’m so, so proud of you,” he whispers, causing Dean’s lips to mimic his.

Once they’re dressed and in the kitchen with Dean’s laptop facing him, Dean turns to look at Cas. He squeezes Dean’s hand off-camera as Dean hits the call button.

**_“_ ** _Well as I live and breathe, you fucking jerk… Jess told me you were caught up in things. Is everything okay?”_

“’s really good to see you, Sammy… bitch,” Dean chuckles before pursing his lips. He takes one last deep breath in doing so. “There’s actually something I wanna share with you…”


End file.
